In class, a tall, scraggly, youngish professor scrawls the word "existentialism" across the blackboard. Heath is in one of the seats, doing what he does best -- flirting with any breasted creature within range of his trouser radar. "Existentialists believe the universe is meaningless, and that human existence has no purpose," the teacher begins. This catches Heath's attention. "And, [they believe] that everything we believe to be true -- our religions, our laws, our relationships -- are only illusions we invent to distract us from our purposeless and empty lives," the teacher continues. The montage becomes music-driven, building strength and turning into a series of quick cuts of Heath looking uncomfortable and the teacher driving home his point like a barrage of golf balls driven into our collective crotches. "And let's face it -- if there's no meaning, why even bother trying? Might as well just give up," the teacher adds. Dear Judd: Don't let FOX make you quit, okay? Don't give up. I've got your back. I think we can take them. I'll get the little guy on the left. Billy Blanks taught me a mean right hook. Okay? Charge! Love, Heathen. Heath taps his pencil and gets increasingly queasy. "Of course it's depressing!" shouts the teacher in a fit of bland angst. "The universe is a miserable and horrible place!" As we are reminded that our lives are meaningless and we are but worthless piles of flesh and bone, Heath shakes his head and covers his face with his hands. He doesn't like being told that his fleshy bone is but useless matter in a pointless world. "We are all going to be alone," the teacher finishes dramatically. Then he perks up and looks at his watch. "Okay, sorry, I've cut into your lunch a bit," he grins. "I'll make it up to you next time." He studies the glum faces of people whose rugs he has not only yanked out from under them, but sold to overseas merchants who shredded them and fed the scraps to local camels. "Cheer up," he says casually. "It's Taco Tuesday!" Heath is distraught. Mexican food twists his intestines like wet washcloths.
Badonk is still working The Magic of Christ on Steven, which is a lot like The Magic of David Copperfield, but without the billowing blouses and tight pants. "I know you're lonely, but it's not about a girl," Badonk insists. "It's God you're missing." Steven doesn't seem wholly convinced, but lacks the testicles to get up and walk away. "The Word is strong right now," nods Badonk importantly. "Know who's a strong believer of The Word? Charlie Sheen." This impresses Steven, who obviously has just realized that one can believe in The Word while also spanking whores and snorting cocaine off their nipples. Badonk adds that Chris Tucker is also a huge fan. He digs G-to-the-O-D. "Do you understand the words that are coming out of my mouth?" Badonk minces in a mediocre imitation of Chris Tucker. Steven, though, enjoys it, and seems attracted to the idea of discovering The Word. God looks up from his fantasy football draft and is all, "Dude, you think I care what you do? It's the NBA finals and every single damn player is thanking me for giving them big feet and free Nikes. I rule." As Steven giggles at the Chris Tucker bit, Badonk edges closer to his recruit. "That's an impression I do," Badonk explains. "But, do you really understand the words coming out of my mouth?" Steven awkwardly assures him that yes, he does understand, but he's just not into religion. "Uh huh," Badonk nods. "And how are you feeling today?" Something clicks in Steven. That something is God. Or Charlie Sheen.